Zero Shame (well, maybe a little shame)

In case this wasn’t already obvious from my last post, I don’t get embarrassed very easily. Aw shit, that's a lie: I absolutely do. But I usually find that if something is embarrassing, it's always better to make fun of yourself before someone else gets the chance.

Here are some things that genuinely embarrass me:

          A. When I’m walking up a hill or stairs with a group of people and I'm the only one out of breath

          B. When I’m stuck alone in the corner of a party because all my friends are talking to someone else and I don’t know what to do except look around like maybe I’m waiting for my...boyfriend. Yeahh.

          C. When someone asks when I last showered (today, for the record)

          D. When a friend borrows my phone and remarks that my last google search was “How many calories are in a four loko?” (660. Just a guess.)

          E. When the McDonald’s drive-thru guy always says “I’ll see you later!” (and then he always does)

          F. When my card gets declined at McDonald’s (this happens a lot more often than you’d think)

          G. When I tell my mom I lost said card and all she texts back is, “Did you try looking at McDonald’s?” (Of course I did, Mom, would I be texting you if I hadn’t?)

          H. When my friends call me and I’m in the car, and the first thing they ask is always, “Are you at McDonald’s?”

Hmmm. I see the pattern, but I am choosing to ignore it.

In a similar vein: My facebook ads are beginning to really embarrass me. Supposedly they cater your advertisements to your specific tastes, and in the past, I haven’t let meaningless missives about Star Wars tees, Exploring My Pregnancy Options, and Best DUI Lawyers upset me too much. But the other day, I had an ad for some old lady lingerie boutique. The description was, “Come on Ladies! When was the last time you dressed up for your man? Even at our age, we deserve to feel sexy!”

Wait, what? Even at “our” age? I’m twenty-one years old. FUCK YOU, FACEBOOK. For real, I reported the ad and said it “offended” me BECAUSE IT DID.

Ahem. I'm getting a little carried away...

I only started thinking about what actually embarrassed me because I saw a comment about “embarrassing myspace pictures” – you know, ones you take of yourself in the mirror, or by holding the camera at that ever-so-flattering, even-more-hood-rattering angle (it's a word now, get over it). The comment was followed by a cascade of agreement: apparently almost every girl has a secret stash of these gems. As it turns out, I actually don't, but probably not for lack of trying.

In any case, the “myspace” picture is purely symbolic: symbolic of humiliations past, of the parts of your teenage self you try so very hard to forget about. And trust me, I’ve got those. So without further ado, a non-ironic stroll down Memory Mortification Lane.

Once, I Owned a Grill

I think I thought I was being ironic when I bought it, but no one ironically shops at Boss Wear, do they?

Let’s be realistic: I was dead serious with that face. And that…whatever I’m doing with my hand. Is that even a gang sign? No, really, is it? I must have thought so.

Once, I Was Very Ageist

A friend of mine said that I reminded him of a drama kid who "just didn’t ever do drama.” That stung, but I saw what he meant. My friends and I were constantly acting in our own twisted dramadies, dressing up and drawing attention to ourselves in the hope that the world would find us as funny as we found ourselves. Pretending to be senior citizens was a favored stunt. While disguised as octogenarians, we did things like cross busy streets as slowly as possible, go to the zoo and pretend to speak Parseltongue (that one doesn’t even make sense), and sprawl at the bottom of staircases, calling to passersby that we had fallen and, you know, couldn’t get up.

No one ever helped us up.

Gee, I wonder why not.

Once, I Rented the Jonas Brothers Movie…three times in one week

I don’t have anything to say for myself. Not a goddamn thing.

Once, I Was So Hood

Not actually. But I did have the following: an 18” subwoofer in my trunk, a black boyfriend, and a whole lotta Smirnoff Ice. BALLIN’. Just so we’re clear, by “my trunk,” I am, in fact, referring to the trunk of my 2003 Subaru Forrester, which is almost as white as me. Oh, the looks I’d get at stoplights – that sub would shake trees, set off car alarms, and then there’d be me, Abercrombie sweater and all, uncomfortably slouched in my seat.

An example of the kind of songs that "sound really good" with subs.

(Side note: Did not yet understand that "white girl" was euphemism for "cocaine.")

One night – the summer after high school, I’m sorry to say – the pent-up tension of listening to entirely too much E-40 and Mac Dre and having no appropriate outlet finally came to a head.

I don’t even know how it happened, but…well. This happened.

I would like to be able to say we were drunk, but that would be a lie.

Meet Kat. This is far from the only picture I have of her with a fake unibrow.

 And this is why my children will go to private school.

Boyfriend: "Why do you just assume I have a do-rag?"

Me: "Well...do you?"

Guess what? He did. Sometimes it pays to be racist.

 The name of this facebook album was, and is, "THUG LYFE." 

You just think about that for a while.

What, you may well ask, is the point of all this? Well, first of all, I thought you might like to see that yes, I was always this cool. 


Secondly: don't you feel better about your myspace pictures now?

That's what I'm here for.